Confrontation (story #3)
by Leyla but you can call me spa
Summary: Feeling out of control, Weaver tries to push Carter away, but he won’t budge.


Confrontation

by Leyla Harrison

sparkle72@videotron.ca

Disclaimer: Yep. I'm still using them. Nope. They still aren't mine.

Rating: strong PG-13

Classification: Weaver/Carter 

Timeline: This story takes place after the events of May Day, and has references to that episode and also to All in the Family. This is the third in a series of Weaver/Carter stories I'm writing. 

You should read the first two, Disclosure and Revelation, in order to understand this one, especially since this one picks up where Revelation left off. 

The previous two stories are located on my webpage:

http://www.geocities.com/sparkle_weaver

Summary: Feeling out of control, Weaver tries to push Carter away, but he won't budge.

***

It doesn't get any worse than this.

I'm crouched on the cold tile floor of a hotel bathroom, my hands shaking, my breath coming in little gasps. The back of my throat tastes bitter. Tears have risen and fallen. They aren't from crying, but from vomiting. It always happens that way.

The thing is, I have a very sensitive stomach.

I don't cry often, and I don't do it well. I'm not able to do what I've seen others do – stand quiet and still and have tears roll dramatically down my cheeks. I cry in short bursts, in little sobs. What's more, I don't like to cry. The reason is stupidly simple, and so very me: it leaves me vulnerable. 

But back to my stomach for a moment. I tend to vomit when I'm emotionally overwhelmed or overloaded. I've had more than one ulcer in my life, and if things are unusually stressful for extended periods of time, instead of finding a quiet corner or a hot bath or a pillow to cry into, I vomit.

How pleasant.

The only relief I feel from vomiting is the fact that I'm always alone when it happens. Blessedly, mercifully alone. I've learned to do it well, so that when I feel it coming I can get it all up in one or two good heaves. Even Valentine's night, outside the ER – I was alone and it was quick. But not this time.

This time, I've been bent over the toilet for long minutes, bringing up what felt like more than just my lunch. 

And, this time Carter is in the other room. 

The strain on my leg is too much. I finally slide to the floor, my back against the bathtub, and cover my eyes with one weary hand.

The door to the bathroom is open; I didn't have time to close it behind me when I got in here. I can't hear anything, but I know he's there. And I know at some point I will have to get up and walk out of the bathroom and face him.

I don't feel remotely ready. I actually feel nauseous again at the thought of leaving this room.

I'm giving Carter some credit, though. If for some reason he decided to walk in here right now, I think I would squeeze myself into the toilet and flush myself away from sheer humiliation. At least he's chosen, wisely, to give me the decency to be alone.

Reliving what was the worst nightmare of my life a few minutes ago is not exactly what I had in mind when he asked me to come back up to the room and talk. Somehow I don't think it was what he thought would happen, either. Him sitting out there, listening to me throw up, and me in here, sitting on the floor, near tears.

Get up, I tell myself. Get it together.

I wait a few more moments until my hands stop shaking, and then get up slowly. I turn the cold water on in the sink. Pulling the paper wrapper off one of the glasses, I fill it, and rinse my mouth. I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I'm turning the water off.

I look, frankly, like hell.

I've always been critical of everything and everyone. To make sure it's all fair and square, I'm hard on myself too. I expect more from myself than I do of anyone else; I always have, and I likely always will.

My face is pale and my forehead is damp with a nice sheen of sweat from the exertion of vomiting, no doubt. I get a washcloth and turn the water back on, soaking the cloth and then pressing it to my head.

The cool cloth feels good, and the sound of the running water makes me forget, for a moment, that I'm not alone. 

I turn the faucet off again and look in the mirror one more time. I no longer look like Kerry Weaver, calm and unruffled, as I did a few hours before when I stood in front of the mirror, getting ready to meet Carter. I now look like a woman undone.

I am overwhelmed with a sudden need to be alone that is so strong that it causes a physical reaction in me. My pulse quickens as I formulate a plan. I'm not at work, where I can duck outside for a moment and pull myself together. And I need to pull myself together. Desperately.

Then I remember: this is my hotel room. I don't have to leave.

Which means that Carter does.

One foot in front of the other, I tell myself, and then I walk out of the bathroom.

***

I'm not sure what to expect on Carter's face when he sees me appear. He looks equal parts concerned and saddened. He stands up as I approach him.

"Carter, I'm really not feeling well," I start, casually. "Must have been something I ate for lunch. I think I should just lie down for a while. Get some rest."

He eyes me, then nods slowly. "That's probably a good idea."

I relax a little. Easier than I thought. Just a few more minutes, and I'll be alone.

"So – " I say, trying to figure out what to tell him. "I'll call you before I head back to Chicago."

He nods again, his expression now thoughtful as we stand face to face, silent, watchful.

"Aren't you going to lie down?" he finally asks.

I look at him, almost incredulously. "Carter. Go back to the center. I'll call you."

"I'm not leaving," he tells me, his voice quiet, but firm. "Not now."

"I told you, Carter, I'm fine. It was just something I ate, I'm sure, and after some rest I'll be much better."

"Then lie down. I don't have to be back at the center until eleven tonight."

"Carter, I'm obviously not making myself clear. I want some privacy, all right?"

"I'm sure you do," he mutters.

"What was that?"

He looks at me pointedly, but when he speaks, his voice in gentle. "How many years, Kerry? How many years have you chosen to be alone when you've been upset about something? You have an opportunity here. You don't have to be alone right now. Lie down. Get some rest. I won't leave."

I want to retort something sharp in return, but I can't. Instead, I'm horrified to find that there are tears pricking the corners of my eyes. God damn it. Why can't I stop crying? What the hell is the matter with me?

And how the hell did he know that about me? Am I that transparent?

My arms hang loosely at my sides, and I stare at him.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I try weakly to protest, but he shakes his head.

"I've known you for enough years now, Kerry. Jesus, I lived with you. You can't spend that much time around a person and not pick up a few things along the way." 

I want to ask what things, but I'm too frightened to know what he sees in me. Instead, I remain silent. 

"You want to be in control of everything. But you can't, Kerry. I told you that yesterday. You don't let anyone into your personal space. I remember when I was living with you, I felt like you were deliberately building walls around yourself so I couldn't get too close. I could feel you watching me as I looked at the books on the shelves, the CDs. It was like you didn't want me to know what you liked to read or listen to."

I open my mouth to answer, but he cuts me off. 

"You're a lonely woman, Kerry. Not many people would notice that because either they don't take the time to look, or if they do, you push them away."

His words sting, and I have found my voice at last. "I'm not lonely, Carter. I like to be alone. There's a difference." It's a lie and he knows it. He keeps talking, picking up steam as he goes.

"When was the last time you had dinner with someone? Sat down over a few cups of coffee and talked about yourself a bit? When was the last time you let someone in, let someone really know you? You don't want anyone to know about your past, or what happened to your leg, or what you did before you walked through those doors at County." 

He advances towards me and I take a step back, uneasy, and my hips bump against the edge of the desk.

"You don't even want anyone to touch you, Kerry." He reaches out a hand, and takes my arm. His fingers graze the inside of my elbow and I shiver. "Let me touch you," he tells me.

The room has gone from air conditioned cool to blazingly hot in a matter of moments. I look up and catch his eye. His eyes are intense and locked onto mine, making me dizzy. Sharply, I pull away from his grasp and walk over to the sliding glass door leading to the balcony. Pushing it open, I step into the haze and humidity of the afternoon heat.

Carter follows me. 

"I can see you've been paying attention in rehab. Is that where you picked up all of that psychoanalytic bullshit?" I ask him, trying to diffuse the tension from inside the room, blinking my eyes closed, seeing nothing but the look on Carter's face burning on my eyelids. 

The afternoon sun beats mercilessly against the building, onto the balcony where we stand.

Carter ignores my question. "Come inside," he says instead, his voice low. 

I open my eyes and I'm dimly aware that he might not just be asking me to come in from the heat, and my heart pounds. I can't remember the last time someone talked to me like this. And looked at me like this. I can feel his heavy gaze even though my eyes are averted.

I can't even fathom the many reasons why this is insane. I may shut myself off from people but I am not stupid; I know that something has happened, shifted, between Carter and I, and there's about a million reasons why I should just grab the reins, take control, and, if necessary, forcibly make him leave my hotel room.

"Please," I murmur, although I'm not sure what I'm asking him for. To leave? To touch me again?

"Just come inside. Lie down. You've been sick."

And so, after a few moments, I follow him back into the comfort of the hotel room, and Carter pulls down the comforter as I slip off my shoes. He's standing in front of the nightstand, blocking where I would normally put my crutch. Before I can say anything, he smiles, and takes the crutch from my hand and props it nearby. 

I crawl into bed and slide under the sheets, my clothes rustling. I'm used to this; there have been many nights when, overcome by the day, I've fallen into bed fully dressed. My stomach is still slightly queasy. "Do you want the blanket?" he asks, and I nod. He pulls it up past my waist and up to my shoulders, his hands brushing against my collarbone. "Just try to sleep," he tells me.

I close my eyes and hear him cross the room and sink into the chaise lounge chair. I've never been able to sleep with someone else in the room, not ever. Even most recently, when I was with Ellis West. Our sexual acrobatics were uncharacteristic for me and although it was an exciting concept, it made me feel like I was walking into a minefield. I dealt with it in the only way I knew how. I always maintained the upper hand, doing the work, getting the job done, never allowing Ellis to bring me the same pleasure I brought him. Afterwards, he would roll over and fall asleep, content, and I would stay awake, listening to him breathe. I didn't want to fall asleep and risk the chance of him waking up and seeing me sleeping, unaware of his gaze on my body. 

I realize that I've spent my whole life ensuring that I'm never, ever vulnerable in any way, even if it meant losing a night's sleep.

I shift in bed, turn over, and open my eyes. Carter is resting on the lounge chair, his head back, his eyes open, gazing away from me, out the window.

I'll just lie here for a while, I think. Just for a few minutes. Until I'm feeling a little better.

With that thought, a sudden exhaustion creeps over me. My eyes slip closed again, and I fall asleep.

***

I dream.

I dream that I'm on the train on the way to work, and I see Carter sitting a few rows away facing me, just sitting, watching. He doesn't speak, makes no move to wave hello or come sit beside me, but doesn't take his eyes off me, either.

In a moment, the other passengers on the train cease to exist. Carter and I are the only ones on the train and he is telling me something with his eyes. 

Kerry, he says. And then the rest of the silent words are unintelligible.

I strain to understand and find with frustration that I can't get it. 

I get up from my seat to go to him, to sit next to him, to ask him what it is he's trying to say to me. As soon as I take the first step, the train lurches and I grab a pole for balance. When I look up, Carter is slumped over in his seat, and I cross the distance between us in a few steps. I touch his shoulder and he slides off the seat completely, onto his belly, and then we are back in Exam Three.

Somehow, I'm aware that I'm asleep and that I'm dreaming.

God, please, I think. Please don't let me dream this right now. Please. I can't see this again.

But I do see it again. I'm there and Carter is there, bleeding heavily, and I can smell the metallic tang of the blood in the room and I know Lucy is there too, just out of my line of sight. Just beyond my ability to help save her.

I go around the bed and rush to her, finding her just as I knew she would be, the stab wounds the same, the blood the same. Her trachea is oozing bright red blood and I put my hand over the wound, foolishly thinking somehow that this will stop the bleeding. My mind races back to Valentine's Day. What did I do next? Scream, I tell myself. Scream for help, and they'll come. 

But I can't scream, and Lucy is beyond my help or anyone else's. There's nothing I can do for her, nothing that I can do to change what I did that night. I roll her from her side onto her back and her eyes, open and clouded, stare up at me and then flicker once, twice, and then close fully.

I manage to get up and get around the bed to the other side, back to Carter. My feet, as they always do in my dreams, slip in the blood. 

I touch his neck, feel for a pulse. My fingers leave little bloody prints, a sign that I am in this just as deeply as humanly possible, that the things I saw and my actions that night are real and will never go away.

"Carter," I whisper to him. "Don't slip away. Fight, Carter."

His pulse is weak and thready. His eyes suddenly blink open, and he looks around, up to the ceiling, off to the side, everywhere but at me. 

"Carter," I murmur, and he finally does look directly at me.

"Save yourself, Kerry," he whispers back, his face contorted with pain, and closes his eyes again.

And then I open my mouth and I scream and scream.

***

The room is dark and silent when I open my eyes. I sit up with a start. 

"Kerry," Carter says, startling me, and I jump. He is near, sitting on the bed, his hands reaching for me in the dark, finding my shoulders, grasping them. "It was a nightmare."

Did I scream out loud? "You're still here," I manage, and although he doesn't respond, I can sense that he's nodding. I'm amazed and also confused as to the fact that he's been sitting in the dark for hours with me sleeping nearby. His hands release my shoulders and slip down to touch my hands in my lap. "What time is it?"

"Eight thirty," he tells me. He's nearer than I thought; his breath is warm on my cheek. He must have leaned closer to see the glow of the numbers on the digital clock.

"I should turn the light on," I say softly.

"Yes, you should," he responds, but neither of us moves.

The darkness and silence envelop us and we sit there for long minutes, our hands still and unmoving. Then Carter slips one thumb over the top of my hand, rubbing it gently, soothingly. I close my eyes. There's no need to keep them open as the room is pitch black. I can't even see Carter's shadow. It's a choice between the darkness of the room or the darkness behind my closed lids and my eyes are still so tired.

Carter continues to stroke my hand with his thumb lightly, and then turns my hands over so that they are palm up. He touches them with his own hands, testing to see the difference in sizes between us. I am held rapt. He was right after all. I don't let people touch me and for an irrational moment I think that I've been a fool. How could I push away what feels so comforting?

It's at that moment that Carter chooses to run his thumb over the fine skin on the inside of my wrist. My eyes fly open, but I see only darkness. My body suddenly electrified, I make a sound halfway between a sob and a moan, and I'm instantly and horrifyingly both aroused and ashamed. 

I try to yank my hands back but Carter surprises me, swiftly wrapping his fingers around my wrists and hanging on tightly. 

"Let go," I plead.

"Why?" he asks in a voice I hardly recognize. "Give me a good reason, and I will."

I struggle to control my suddenly ragged breathing as I work frantically to come up with something to say. 

"We're sitting here in the dark, Carter. This is ridiculous. Let go of my wrists."

"Just one good reason, Kerry." 

"Let go, Carter. I don't know what you want me to say." I lie brazenly and he lifts my hands, even though I'm trying to pull them free, and places his lips gently on the inside of my wrist where his thumb touched me. 

"One reason, Kerry," he murmurs, his words vibrating against my skin, and I tremble violently. He lowers my hands and brings his face close to mine and I can feel how close his lips are. One more moment, one more slight movement is all it will take. My breath catches.

"Oh God, Carter, we can't do this," I whisper desperately, the words tumbling out of my mouth. "Please let go."

And suddenly, he does.

He reaches across me and turns on the lamp and I blink at him. I can imagine in his dark eyes what he sees in my face: heat and the flush of arousal. His eyes are almost black, his pupils dilated even with the light. 

We sit there, looking at each other for a few seconds.

And then, slowly, his face changes and gives way, and he looks very suddenly guilty.

"Jesus," he breathes. "I'm sorry, Kerry."

I nod mutely. I don't trust my voice yet.

"I – I should go," he says, almost inaudibly. 

"Don't," I say, surprising him, and myself. What am I doing? What am I asking him for?

He stares at me.

"You're right, Kerry. We can't do this. You're – in a vulnerable state right now." I cringe at the word. "I don't know what I was doing. I'm sorry."

The thought of him leaving the room fills me with panic, and I berate myself for the weakness. Didn't you want him to leave? a little voice asks inside my head, accusingly. 

Oh, shut up, I wearily tell the voice.

"Carter, what happened just now – " I start, and he puts up a hand. 

"Don't. Don't say anything. I'm going to leave."

He gets up and I follow, sliding into my shoes, reaching for my crutch. 

"Don't leave like this. Carter."

"I should go back to the center."

Finally, wearily, at the mention of the center, I sigh, and nod. I feel guilty too; this was not what I had intended when I planned this trip. I had not intended to break down, tell all my secrets, hinder Carter from his healing process.

"I'll walk you downstairs."

"You don't need to."

"Just let me walk down with you."

He finally moves his head up and down and we walk in silence down the blue-hued hallway to the elevator. 

***

The elevator doors open on thr ground floor and Carter steps out first and freezes. As soon as the doors swish closed behind me, I stop short, seeing what Carter is seeing.

The lobby has changed, it seems.

What was a bright open space in whites and muted sand colors during the day has been transformed with nightfall. The lights have been lowered to the point where they are barely noticeable. Hundreds of small glass jars are scattered on the floor against the walls, arranged in groups on every available surface, and each one holds a tiny white candle and a bright flickering flame. The lobby is alive with light, and yet still filled with shadows in the corners and the empty spaces.

Carter turns and looks at me, his eyes filled with an undefinable emotion tinged with sadness. I want suddenly to take him in my arms, to drag him back upstairs to the room, to do anything to take that look out of his eyes.

Only slightly shocked by my thoughts, I instead stand still and quiet.

"Good night, Kerry," Carter says, and turns and walks away from me. I watch him as he goes, slowly, not once turning back. He pushes open the glass door and I see him stand there on the pavement, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. The bellman comes up and speaks to him, Carter answers him. Calling a taxi, no doubt.

Good night. Goodbye. It's all the same. I stand and watch him, his back to me, and then I see a yellow taxi pull up the circular driveway, ready to turn and pick up its passenger.

Wait, wait, I think suddenly, and before I can even realize it, my feet are carrying me across the dark floor and to the entrance. I push open the glass door.

"Carter!"

His hand is already reaching for the door of the taxi, ready to get in, ready to leave, but at the sound of my voice his head whirls around and he stops. I hurry to him and touch his free hand, the first touch that I have initiated.

"I'm staying tomorrow, Carter. If you have another day pass. We could have lunch."

A slight smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "Are you sure?"

"We all have to eat lunch, Carter," I remind him.

"Make it dinner," he says. 

I nod my head. "Six o'clock."

"I'll meet you upstairs this time," he tells me.

"Yes."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Kerry." He gets in the cab, his shoulders not as slumped, and closes the door. Without thinking, I touch the glass of the window next to him and he touches it from the inside, our hands meeting briefly through a pane of glass. The taxi pulls away and I wait until it is at the end of the hotel driveway, until it is on the street, until the last speck of red from its tail lights can be seen, and then I turn and go inside.

END

(well, not really…there's another story coming up!)


End file.
